Archive For The “Short Stories” Category

and the wooden double doors to the lobby of the lofts above Nikki’s Pizzeria nearly ripped off their hinges as two punks staggered out into the city, shielding themselves from the rain with the sleeves of their tattered jackets.

“Let’s go,” one of them said. “Before they come lookin’.”

“Slow down,” said the other. he was small and struggling to keep up. “You don’t need to do this.”

they hustled through the thunderstorm, past the sewer grates on East Lafayette, over the re-paved patches of concrete, across Beaubien toward the nearest People Mover station.

“I gotta get outta here.”

“They’ll find a way to find you. You shouldn’t be running.”

“I can try.”

they both hopped over the metal arms of the turnstile and scampered up the concrete steps toward the platform.

Upstairs.

they waited for the next train. one of them studied the dull glow of the headlights emerging from the tunnel and watched as the monorail roared up the tracks, rolling to a stop.

the other didn’t.

they both boarded the boxcar. heads turned. some passengers exchanged glances. the automatic doors slowly closed.

the smaller kid leaned towards the other. “Let’s go talk to ’em first. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

but the other kid didn’t answer. he scanned the different shades of faces on the train. his gaze crossed an elderly black lady sitting across the isle from him.

“Look away.”

she silently complied.

a few moments passed. nothing happened.

the People Mover continued chugging down the tracks. they could both feel the brakes beginning to grind beneath his feet. one of the punks clutched his stomach and gazed out the window. when the train started rumbling, the smaller kid decided to stand.

He looked down at his friend as the People Mover continued crawling to the platform. They were both still wet from the rain.

And even though we shared the same bedroom, we remained worlds apart. Even though our clothes were kept in the same dresser, we rarely saw each other undress… By the beginning of fall, our relationship had completely fallen apart.

My watch stopped moving when she left.

It was the end of summer, one of the hottest on record, and I remember sitting on the porch of our apartment trying to fight the heat with tattered wet towels and slushy frozen lemonade.

I remember watching her sunbathe in the bikini I bought her, stretched out across her colorful beach towel with large designer frames shielding her dark green eyes from the sun. And when other guys would walk past, I’d watch their eyes drift from the sidewalk and onto her body and I could feel my fingers digging into my palm, both hands forming aggressively tight fists.

“The fuck you lookin’ at?” I’d shout, standing up defensively with my chest puffed out like some kind of cartoon. But the guys wouldn’t respond, they’d just look at me and laugh to themselves. And my girlfriend would just turn towards me and peer over the rim of her sunglasses long enough to tell me to sit down and shut up without moving her lips.

So I did. And I would.

At night we would sit on opposite ends of the couch, staring listlessly at the images flashing across the television in silence. We would watch sitcoms that weren’t funny while utterly ignoring each other’s sexual advances or hints of intimacy.

And whenever I’d see a handsome actor seductively delivering his lines, I’d wonder whether or not he looked like the guy that my girlfriend cheated on me with. I would glare blankly at the illuminated images, lost in my own imagination, cringing at the scenarios brewing between my ears.

I remember watching her leave.

It was my fault. I chased her away. I broke her down.

I took off the gold watch and heaved it against the wall in one last desperate act of defiance. And after she left, I picked up the watch and examined the shattered glass and the broken gears sprawled across the carpet.